of judging of the hour; but by the flagging pace of his horse, and his own fatigue, he knew that he must have been many hours in the saddle.  Surely the Potomac must be at hand!  Yet there was no sign of it, and over interminable hill and dale, through corn-fields, and over patches of woodland and meadow, the weary steed was urged on, slipping and sliding in the saturated soil.  What was that sound which caused his horse to prick up his ears and quicken his pace with the instinct of danger?  He heard it himself distinctly.  It was the baying of a bloodhound.

“They are on my track!” muttered Harold; “and unless the river is at hand, I am lost.  Forward, sir! forward, good fellow!” he shouted cheerily to his horse, and the noble animal, snorting and tossing his silken mane, answered with an effort, and broke into a gallop.

Down one hill into a little valley they pushed on, and up the ascent of another.  They reached the crest, and then, thank Heaven! there was the broad river, winding through the valley.  Dull and leaden hued as it looked, reflecting the clouded sky, he had never hailed it so joyfully when sparkling with sunbeams as he did at the close of that weary day.  Yet the danger was not past; up and down the stream he gazed, and far to the right he could distinguish a group of tents peering from among the foliage of a grove, and marking the site of a Confederate battery.  But just in front of him was a cheering sight; an armed schooner swung lazily at anchor in the channel, and the wet bunting that drooped listlessly over her stern, revealed the stars and stripes.

The full tones of the bloodhound’s voice aroused him to the necessity of action; he turned in the saddle and glanced over the route he had come.  On the crest of the hill beyond that on which he stood, the forms of three horsemen were outlined against the greyish sky.  They distinguished him at the same moment, for he could hear their shouts of exultation, borne to him on the humid air.

It was yet a full mile to the river bank, and his horse was almost broken down with fatigue.  Dashing his armed heels against the throbbing flanks of the jaded animal, he rushed down the hill in a straight line for the water.  The sun was already below the horizon, and darkness was coming on apace.  As he pushed on, the shouts of his pursuers rang louder upon his ear at every rod; it was evident that they were fresh mounted, while his own steed was laboring, with a last effort, over the rugged ground, stumbling among stones, and groaning at intervals with the severity of exertion.  He could hear the trampling behind him, he could catch the words of triumph that seemed to be shouted almost in his very ear.  A bullet whizzed by him, and then another, and with each report there came a derisive cheer.  But it was now quite dark, and that, with the rapid motion, rendered him comparatively fearless of being struck.  He spurred on, straining his eyes to see what was before him, for it seemed that the ground in front became suddenly and curiously lost in the mist and gloom.  Just then, simultaneously with the report of a pistol, he felt his good steed quiver beneath him; a bullet had reached his flank, and the poor animal fell upon his knees and rolled over in the agony of death.